Germany never really forgot.
Even to this day, as he sits in the meeting room and tries to tune out all the chatter of the other countries, he can remember. Though, with just a glance toward England, he knows he can never tell Italy the truth; that he never lost his true friend; that "Holy Rome" never really died; that there is no reason for the tears shed over the "fallen" country. Because if he ever did, that would be the end.
Germany leans back in his chair, hands clasped over his midriff as he tries to concentrate on the matter at hand. It doesn't work, though. He drifts off into memories of what used to be, as he is prone to doing when he has nothing to do.
At first, as is always the case with this specific memory Germany chooses to dig up, all he can remember is pain. Pain in the blood seeping from the many wounds, pain from the broken bones, pain from the burns…but agony from the memories of Italy's face and her sadness at receiving the news that he, Holy Rome, was dead.
Holy Rome imagined his friend's face; the curve of her lips, the shape of her brown eyes, the delicate touch of her hand on his. He held all these memories close to him, drifting off into the black, with the image being his only companion. He was about to let go of it all and surrender to the pain, when he felt a hand tug at his.
Suddenly, bright lights filled his vision, and he was dragged back into the real world. He didn't recognize the voice that spoke to him, nor did he really understand the words. He could only make out a head of blond hair and a pitying expression. Then the darkness closed over for good on Holy Rome.
"Germany!" Italy squeals, jumping on him. He fails for a minute, almost crushed to death by the Italian's weight, but manages to regain his composure. "England is chasing me!" he cries before scampering off to hide behind France.
"My scones are delicious, you git! You have no idea what you're talking about!" England screams, rushing after the frightened nation, charred scone in hand. Germany presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to quell his irritation.
He can remember when Italy hadn't been so clumsy. Actually, even diving into Holy Rome's memories, he can't. Italy has always been so clumsy and outspoken, not really thinking about the consequences of his actions.
But on the other hand, he has always been kind to everyone, and has never meant to insult anyone. Germany can't really think of another person he'd love to be around. Unfortunately, he can't spend quality time with the Italian. Every time he stands close to his friend, he is tempted to tell the truth about himself, to divulge all the secrets that he has been keeping for millennia. But he can't. Thanks to England, that is.
Holy Rome opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh light. Where was he? Why was he in so much pain? Where was Italy? These thoughts chased each other around in his head, making him groan with discomfort.
"Steady on, chap," a voice said to him gently, and Holy Rome could feel a hand on his. For a second, his heart raced at the thought that it might be Italy. But as his vision cleared, he saw the blond mop of hair again; the same one he saw on the battlefield. A green pair of eyes soon came into focus, along with a red military uniform stuffed with lace.
For a brief moment, Holy Rome was scared that France had come to finish him off. But the smell of burnt food in the background quelled his fears; it was just Britain.
"How are you feeling?" Britain asked, smiling gently. Holy Rome grunted, finding his voice so raw and broken that he couldn't make a sound. "It's all right; you don't have to speak. Just listen, okay?"
Once more, Germany was snapped from his trance by his childhood friend. Italy was hanging from his arm with a pleased look on his face, holding a forkful of pasta and sporting a new lump on his head.
"What did you do this time, Italy?" Germany questioned, sighing.
"I ran away," the half-nation supplied proudly, munching on his spaghetti. "And I got pasta."
Even throughout the ages, Italy had never outgrown his love for pasta. Even as a child, his favorite thing to do was cook pasta with Holy Rome and enjoy eating it under the shade of the oak tree in Mr. Austria's backyard. He always refused to eat the food that Mr. Austria made, insisting that it was "gross". Germany chuckles a bit, staring down at the Italian at his side.
"Ve~? What's the matter, Germany?" Italy wonders, pressing his face closer to the taller man's.
"Nothing," the blond dismisses, waving his hand in the air. Italy shrugs it off and runs toward Spain to play a game of tag.
Germany relaxes once again, slipping back into the sea of memories. He can almost feel the uncomfortable scratching of the blankets under and over him, nearly tasting the cinders and ash lingering on the air.
"You shouldn't be alive," England confided in the small nation, shaking his head grimly. "I'm afraid that, when France does something, he goes all the way."
Holy Rome felt confusion at the older man's statement. Luckily, England went on.
"Your windpipe was crushed, and your lung had collapsed. Not to mention all the broken bones and burns around your body. The only way I could keep you alive was with Black Magic." He said this last part grimly, a dark expression coming over his face.
"Luckily," England chirped, "you're still alive, eh?" Holy Rome could tell that the older nation was simply trying to make him feel better, but all he was doing was stoking Holy Rome's fears. The bedridden child suppressed a wince as he titled his head to one side, as if to ask, 'What's the catch?'
England understood the question as if he could read the little one's thoughts. "There is a small snag. You see, you can't tell anyone about this. With my spell, I was able to keep all of your memories and your body intact. But the enchantment is nothing more than an illusion to put it bluntly."
Holy Rome tightened at this thought, his eyes growing wide between the strips of gauze covering his face. "Hold on, it's not as bad as you think." England tried to soothe Holy Rome, but it didn't help much. "If no one discovers that you're Holy Rome, then you can continue to live. You make a new life for yourself, as long as no one besides us knows the truth."
Holy Rome gathered up his strength, putting all the force in his body into his next question. "Italy?" He tasted this word on his lips, feeling his charred lips mold around the delicate letters.
England shook his head. "I'm sorry, lad. Not even your friend, Italy."
Holy Rome's heart broke at this, and whatever strength he had left vanished. He lay there, limp and unresponsive, as England tried to snap him out of it. Holy Rome had lost his reason to fight. If he couldn't be with Italy, then what was the point?
"—can still see her!" England was saying desperately, shaking Holy Rome's shoulders as much as he could without harming the boy any further. "You can still see her, along with everyone else! As long as they don't know!" Relief sank into the Brit as Holy Rome blinked his eyes once, the twice. He had begun to worry that Holy Rome would just give up.
Holy Rome's eyes filled with hope as he thought of being able to see his beloved friend again. A small blush crept up his cheeks, but he didn't notice under all the bandages and wrapping.
England sighed with satisfaction, leaning back into his chair with a huff. "Now, before we go any further, we need to find a name for you. How does 'Germany' sound?" Holy Rome nodded absent-mindedly, his thoughts solely focused on Italy. Even though he would never be able to tell her of the past, maybe they could have a future together.
Over the years, Holy Rome, or Germany, has asked England why he had helped him. All the older man would reply with was, "I didn't want France's plan to destroy you to succeed." Two things that England will never admit are that 1) he deeply cared for the boy and couldn't bear to see him die, and 2) that 'Germany' was the name of England's pet unicorn.
Germany snaps out of his trance when Italy comes rushing up to him, flailing his arms in the air and screaming his head off. He jumps into Germany's lap, clutching the blond for dear life. His brother, South Italy, is running up to them, tomato in hand and furious expression on his face.
"Feliciano!" Romano yells, launching himself at the younger brother. He tosses the tomato, but he's so blindly furious that it goes wide. Spain promptly catches it, sinking back into sleep. "Don't you dare say those kinds of thing again! Chigi!" The Italian's face is bright red and he's flustered. But before Germany can really say anything, Romano stalks away, his arms rigid by his sides.
"Vhat did you say this time, Italy?" Germany asks, exasperated.
Italy looks innocently up at the blond. "I just said that he and America look really cute together."
Germany sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. "Italy, you can't just go around saying things like that. People will take them the wrong way." His voice is strained with what little patience he has left.
"Why? People are saying all the time that we look cute together. And I think so too!" Italy beams up at Germany, he face closer than the older man is comfortable with. Germany feels a blush creep up his cheeks as Italy presses their noses together. For a moment, Germany is desperately tempted to blurt out the truth, to just confess to being the younger man's childhood friend, but England catches his eye. He shaking his head ever so slightly, giving Germany a warning stare.
Germany picks Italy up by the armpits, lifting him off of his lap and setting him on the chair beside him. "Italy," Germany says with a bit less of a commanding tone, "we need to get to work." Germany picks up a pile of papers, pretending to read them. But he watches Italy out of the corner of his eye.
The smaller nation takes a sheet of blank paper and a pen, doodling faces on the edges of the pages, roses in the center. Even though the expressions on the faces are less-than-skillfully drawn, the roses almost look real, like Germany could lean over and smell their aroma. Germany smiles a bit; roses are his favorite flower, though Italy only knows that Holy Rome enjoyed them.
Germany feels a small pain in his chest. He has no idea how many times he's wanted to tell Italy the truth, to hold him and to soothe him, to tell him that he never lost his friend. But, no matter how much he longs to tell him, he knows he can't. If he disappeared for good, Italy would be crushed. Germany knows this.
But as he peers down at the smaller nation, who is concentrating on a rose petal, he wonders exactly how long he'll be able to keep up the guise. With every smile Italy gives, he can feel himself being pushed that much closer to the edge, that much closer to the truth. Every time the slender boy cries over Holy Rome, Germany is tempted just to give into the boy's cries for his long-lost friend.
Germany puts his face in his hand, attempting to hide the emotions flashing across his face: confusion, hurt, love, longing, unbearable agony. 'How long can I keep this up?' he asks himself, looking up at the eggshell-colored ceiling as if it might hold the answers.